


A Kept Devil

by smilingcrescent



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Character Study, Diary/Journal, Gen, Hogwarts, Magic Tricks, On the path to evil, Orphanage, Plotting, Revenge, Scheming, Summer Holiday, Tom Riddle is a terrifying child, WWII era, Young Tom, stylistic writing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-11
Updated: 2013-06-27
Packaged: 2017-12-11 12:52:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/798942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smilingcrescent/pseuds/smilingcrescent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tom Riddle hates going back to the orphanage for the summer. He might have spent the days quietly, but an incident makes him more than willing to challenge everyone.  (1st Person PoV, gen fic.)</p><p><span class="u">Excerpt:</span><br/>My heart quickened to see it, for it was not <i>me</i> hurting. The beginnings of a smile tugged at my lips. To see him so…I knew then who held the power, and it was not him. It never would be again. I turned away, knowing he would follow. He could sense my amusement, and that is what cast fear to anger. </p><p>Oh, come and watch. This is how a petty man falls.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Summer Begins

**Author's Note:**

> **Current Warnings:** mention of blood. Violence in chapter 4. Mean Tom. No pairings (i.e., gen fic). Spoilers for Voldemort’s past, eventual spoiler for Half-Blood-Prince.  
>  **Disclaimer:** no money or profit was made in the writing or posting of this fiction.　Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling and those other copy-right holders—which I have nothing to do with. 
> 
>  
> 
>  **On the time period & canon:** Tom has finished his 3rd year, and has thus already turned 14. Set in WWII, with only minor hints to the war. Also, I have never been to the UK, so please forgive any discrepancies, and then tell me about them so I can fix it. (: 
> 
> Also, canon has the orphanage in London. I changed it to the countryside; specfically in Little Hangleton. I imagined the Riddle House to be in Great Hangleton.

**A kept devil:** Tom Riddle’s Diary

~And so the demon cried to thee  
look once, but answer  
not at all~

**Saturday, July 19th, 1941**

The first thing I noticed about the orphanage after coming back was the way _nothing_ changed. When I went to the door before the caretaker’s husband, Mr. Cole had completely gotten out of the car.

“Untouched by the bombings, then.” I said.

“You knew about the Blitz? The bombings?” Cole asked, careful as you please.

I smiled at him, playing nice as nice can be. “We have papers at school. I know things.”

“Wouldn’t think it.” He muttered, kicking up dirt as he walked.

I ignored him, looking at the garden. It was deserted, and even the grass looked gray. Dull and as uninspiring as ever. That I have to stay _another_ summer sets my teeth on edge and heat blazing behind my eyes.

Cole made a disgruntled noise. I realized then that he was talking to me. “You never so much as ask about us here, now do you?”  
   
“I’m sorry, should I?” I frowned, bringing my features into a sculpted expression of remorse. I half wanted him to challenge me. That would be an interesting way to start the holiday…I thought idly of sending his blood boiling with words, riling him up until he got angry enough to hit me.

I could still make a project out of it, I suppose. I wondered if I could get him out of here, away from the young kids who don’t know how to stay out of the way. I wondered if I could send him to war, even…he’s not an old man. By all reckoning, he should be sent away. It’s cowardice that keeps him here, when his countrymen are dying in droves and…oh, I don’t really care. But it would be nice to throw the place into chaos.

After he mumbled something incoherent, he lets the slight slide. He briskly walked through the front door, calling out to Mrs. Cole. “We’re back!” And he had the gall to look at me expectantly, as though I’d follow obediently at his lead. Like I were still some child.

I took my time, eyeing the edges of things. Everything is worn, and there is so little change between the orphanage now and when I was last here that you could fool anyone into thinking time just…stopped here. Cole thinks he can make me a helpless child by slipping into routine.

But I wasn’t helpless then. And I’m not helpless now.

When Cole was good and vexed, I turned my attention to the house. Walked up slowly and nodded at Mrs. Cole when she came in to greet us. Valuable things, first impressions, especially after some time away. She knew me from old; however she didn’t glower like her husband, but tried instead for a smile. I returned it. Even the most anxious heart will assume there’s love there when before only apprehension and fear dwelled. If you make them think so.

But it’s time for dinner, and I hardly think I ought waste time on the rest of this.

**Monday, July 21st, 1941**

There’s a headache lurking behind my eyes. It turns my stomach and distracts me. I’m too dizzy to do anything more than sit in the dim room they provide for me.

I have to close my eyes for minutes at a time. I can’t concentrate. Can’t study. I hate being in this world, robbed of my subtler gifts.

Someone’s going to be sorry. Misery loves company and all that.

**Tuesday, July 22nd, 1941**

Mark the day; taste the anger and rule it. My blood christens these pages through cracked nails.

It’s a pretty picture, isn’t it? Like blobs of red birds turning brown.  
   
It’s not much blood, really. Not enough to do anything big…but there’s just enough to scratch a pentagram in red. Could nail it to the door, and wouldn’t that scare them.

.  
.  
.  
.  
I’ll kill him.

.  
.  
.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tbc…
> 
> This Tom is inspired from the book, _Prince of Thorns_ ；you can see the tone of this writing is similar. If you like fantasy and really evil (but quite fascinating and somehow relatable) characters, please read it. However, I do not recommend it for children or very young teens.
> 
> Thoughts? What do you suspect Tom will do?  
> This is my first fanfic for the Harry Potter universe. Comments (with critique if you like!) would help me finish this. :D (Like, er, titles? I fail at titles.) 
> 
> Please~? (:


	2. Enemies?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A/N: some of the ‘wild’, incidental magic has similarities to Mr. Norrel and Jonathan Strange. Fitting, I think, since Little Hangleton is in Northern England…

**Wednesday, July 23rd**

I thought I would die. 

That day, the wind howled and the clouds blackened the sky's face. I had gone to find a sparce bit of solitude at the cliffs, and I admit, my arrogance would have blinded me. I had magic in sight, playing at my fingertips, and I did not see what followed. When I noticed him, the game was already set in motion. I'd barely the time to register him, and he pushed me to the rocks. There, stranded in the air, I felt the terrible emptiness beneath me, knew how much mass there was within me, around me, and how much effort it would take to levitate. I hadn't the strength. I swayed in a gust of wind, breathed in the salt air, and tasted failure. It was bitter, but I did not crash. I swayed in a gust of wind near the ocean, stranded far below.

I fell to the rocks, and they made a stair for me. I spoke, and it was so. My blood spilt there on the pale gray slabs, an offering and a testament of my strength. I stood up (past all expectations) and faced him...all by the call of my magic. The world around me would be forever changed.

Magic swirled, but I tasted only blood, felt the pain and the fear that swirled into rage. I would triumph over him, but I did not come out unscathed. My nails cracked, like I wrote. My feet blistered after my shoes plummeted into the sea. One step. Then another.  
.  
.  
.  
His face was bloodless when I neared him. Obviously, he too thought I would die. He'd planned for it, and then he failed, so he ran before I could catch him. His footsteps faded before I had caught my breath.

 

Oh yes, I will remember this. To think…he followed me to that secret place. It’s _mine._ That a Muggle would dare go there after me…and one like Owen at that.

He’s such a scrawny thing, Owen Cole. Takes after Mrs. Cole more than his father, I had thought. Anxious more than spiteful. His father is the quiet, brooding sort. The kind of man who holds grudges and never says anything truthful when he dislikes you. The kind of person who would choke a child if he thought no one would know. 

Owen though, he was jealous. I never thought he would touch me…but he takes after his father after all. He wants me gone in a permanent kind of way, which is something I can't overlook. But killing him outright—

It would be fair.  
It should be in my rights, as his friendly shove would have killed a lesser man—  
But I can make him suffer.

And that might be better in the long run.

**Friday, July 25th**

I’ve thought of how to do it. How to make Owen regret trying to kill me. 

I saw him today in the garden. He stood awkward among the smaller children, but his hopeful expression betrayed him. Unpopular as his parents are in the town—begging for money to support poor orphans does that—he probably doesn’t have a soul to call friend. 

“Good morning, Owen.” I said, coming up beside him. We’re barely two months apart in age, Owen and I, but I’m already taller than he is. 

He flinched away. “Tom.” He nodded curtly, imitating his father. 

“Why aren’t you in the village?” I asked slowly, scanning the ruddy faces of the children. 

“Helping out with the kids.” He said loftily. As though watching the brats meant something.

“Planning a game, then.” I walked up close to him, leaning close enough to taste his discomfort. “Did Mr. and Mrs. Cole put you up to it?” 

He nodded quickly. Too quickly. “Of course.” Then he shot a glance at the kids. 

They had their bug eyes on him, and sometimes on me. Some did it furtively, some blatantly. Even the stupidest of animals knows what to do when its better comes knocking, and they were trying to decide how things would pan out. 

“Remember not to go too far.” I advised quietly. “Don’t be taking them anywhere dangerous.” I doubt he could catch the hint of mocking amusement in my tone, however. 

I went out of sight then, and listened quietly as he clumsily got the children to pay him mind. It ended with half-successful results. He was trying to act popular around the brats, but only half succeeded because he was also working. 

Then it dawned on me. The beginning of a plan that could work. Oh, yes. I know how to make him fall.

* * *

tbc…


	3. A plan set

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _"There's something brittle in me that will break before it bends. Something sharp that puts an edge on all the soft words I once owned._ " ~The Prince of Thorns, chapter 9

**Saturday, July 26th**  
More than the artifice of Muggle buildings and the pull of civilization, I always walked where I would as a child. There's a kind of magic on the wind from the sea, and another whisper of power from the deep caves. But I went to the town today and saw many things.

And do you know what I did? Well, it's nothing much. No one will remember it but me, but each treasure I take from them becomes mine, and I will not let it go.

I found Owen Cole. He was lingering around the tennis courts, holding a racket from who-knows-where. I suppose he knows how to play from secondary school.

Whether they knew him or not, though, one of the kids ignored Owen, and stared instead at me. "Who are you?" He looked as though someone had gone and hit him; country people are rather untrusting of strangers. Or maybe it's just me?

"Tom." I'd said, and I picked up a spare racket. I don't really know how to use such things, but I can guess the premise of most games. (*1) "Care for a match?"

It was the very thing Owen had wanted to ask. But I said it first.

"I'm Paul." He held out his hand. "Paul Wenman." The other boy nodded, and a smile split his face. He had a mean look to him. I could use that…even without making a perfect fool of myself. I'm not an amazing sportsman, but I have good reflexes. If he noticed I copied him, though, he didn't say anything, and when more of his mates came, we called truce, and that was that.

No chance for Owen to play then.

I smiled, and thought of bewitching them. But spells are just words, and I have the power over those. I have since I was a tiny thing.

This lot would be mine. And what you can't do alone…you can do in numbers.

I nodded to Owen, cool as you please. Then I spoke to the group. "After we're done playing," I announced, my voice clear and carrying, "let me show you a place…I think you'd find it interesting."

Ah, Owen. Can you see the web I weave? No? More's the pity.

**Tuesday, July 29th**

Who would have thought that a bunch of Muggles in (practically) farm clothes could appreciate the finer points of stargazing? But they did. We did that a night or two, and now were out again. The hills and rocky places make for good hideaways…and while they pretended not to care for childish games at first, they took to them soon enough. Knowing your homeland in a new way is a powerful thing.

But then came today, and they remembered a question they ought to have asked the day we met.

"Tom, what are you called?" Gus Knox asked. He was a big one—but soft and stupid as any kid. He has a tendency to look down his nobbled nose, and there's a twitch his eye gives sometimes that makes me think he needs his eyes repaired.

"And where do you live?" Paul Wenman continued, suspicious now that he'd been reminded. Paul was the one with the tennis racket, and in the two days we'd been playing, he'd only won the first two games. I suppose he would have noticed that I took another way home. I bet I was suddenly very interesting after he lost.

"Tom Marvalo Riddle." I spared him a glance. The plan has moved on quicker than I thought it would. Even so, I wasn't answering Wenman just yet. I ached to pull out my wand and hex him instead. Because he didn't know to tread carefully. Because he kept staring at me stubbornly.

"Riddle?" Knox grinned.

"I was so named."

"Like the Manner House Riddles?" he scratched absently at his side, reminding me of why I dislike Muggles so.

I smirked a little then. Better than putting on a blank face, letting them know that _I_ knew less than they did. (*2)

"We haven't heard of no more Riddles." Knox said finally, his face turning crimson with the brunt of my attention.

"Maybe he's a bastard." Wenman whispered, not so quietly. His two mates, Yoder and Moore, laughed with him.

I felt the blood draining from my face, and my eyes might have flashed. I imagine they looked red for an instant. "A bastard." I repeated sourly. Fair spat the words out, and would have cursed them all.

"He admits it!" one of them said.

I would have buried their bones and set creatures (foul, hungry things that would eat anything, even if it was noxious) on their remains.

So I'm a bastard in both worlds. Scorned for my mother's untraceable ancestry and hard luck. Sneered at in Hogwarts for my father's low blood and unknown name. _But they might as well know._ I told myself. Scum like them mean nothing to me. Now…right now, I'm playing the Game.

"Yes, that's the sum of it, isn't it?" I smiled, slow and soft, using the voice others would call deadly.

"But." Knox seemed stumped. I suppose his brains aren't up to the simple task of recalling information. They'd have heard tell of me if I was in town. If my worthless Muggle father made himself known to me, they'd know as much as I did. It's the way of the country. I had no name in town, so there was only one answer.

"Yes. I grew up at the orphanage…the same one the Coles run." My lip curled. Talking of them is like volunteering to vomit.

I observed their obstinate silence. Then I straightened and looked them over. They thought I hadn't seen their exchanged glances. They now eyed me suspiciously.

"I'm going for a walk." I announced.

I circled around back here, pausing just long enough to record this. It will be a record of my triumph. I admit to some curiosity about my father…but really, knowing him means nothing. I ought return now…my reentry to the stage will mark the second act.

And it doesn't do to let your audience wait.  
.  
.  
.  
Of all things, they had to choose _catch ball._ I suppose one of them carried the leather ball from house to house, field to field, and smiled when his idiocy was praised for 'being prepared.'

And there they were, playing what they thought was a nonchalant, easy game. But I can taste their unease. The dread that comes in my wake with Muggles. Every pass of the ball is only a lull in the tension, and it pulls at their eyes.

"What do you reckon?"

"I dun'no." Knox was slower than Wenman when it came to accusations. I suspect he kept them talking too much and getting nowhere when I was gone.

Yoder and Moore looked at the last of their group, a tall, lean one with a slow and mean expression. "We said already. Should stay away from that one."

Wenman couldn't keep quiet. "Sure as hell he ain't normal. You saw it just like I did."

"…strange things happen when Riddle's around."

They all nodded, solemn, frightened, and….intrigued. "Yeah."

"…you don't think he's…" Yoder, or maybe it was Moore, began.

"What Cole was talking about?" Knox asked, reluctant.

"Cole said strange things always are happenin' at the orphanage. From behind those tall gates. Stuff goes missing. People go missing." Petulant Paul, I think I should call him. He doesn't tell a tale well. There are words, and then there are _words._

"It's an orphanage. They were adopted." Knox said flatly, attempting to reassert his dominance. "And there are way worse stories about the school house…"

"But there's more." Petulance continued. "He said they get all kinds. Boys and girls half murdered by their families, insane with grief and haunted by ghosts. Then after, when the boys grow up a little, off they go. Unheard of again. They don't come back."

While their eyes were on him, I took myself to a particularly shady tree. Leaned up against it, crossed my arms, and released my concentration. Their eyes would be drawn to me as soon as I opened my mouth.

"It is a war." I reminded them. "Sometimes when people go, they don't come back because _someone_ killed them. Perhaps it was an army or two."

They spun around with such ferocity that two stumbled. Oh, and Moore dropped the ball.

"I suppose you heard Cole then." A thin smile crossed my face. "And that you know so. _much._ about what happens there."

Knox backed into Petulant Paul. "When did you—"

"Do you trust him?" I cut in.

"'course not." Moore coughed, too stupid to know he wasn't supposed to be talking. The rest of them wonder silently. "How is it," the sneer on his face is an improvement, I'd say. "That things _happen_ around you."

Hm. Not quite a question, that.

I paused, pretending to consider it. "At school," I said at last, "we've been studying philosophers. It means," my lips quirked in a wry smile, "we read a lot of old books written by old men who have pondered the universe for longer than you. Carlyle said in his book, _On heroes,_ that 'the history of the world is but the biography of great men,'

(*3) which is to say, great men make the world, and how you see history, _or reality,_ is largely uncovered by great men in their inevitable rise to power. Hegel agrees, and Nietzsche has some rather amusing, if strangely worded, theses to support it."

I stopped. Obviously, this was going too far over their heads to follow. I closed my eyes and wished stupidity did not fill the world. "In short, you see things differently around me because I'm brilliant."

I was lying. It happens for one reason: magic loves me.

They were talking of incidental, wandless magic. The frequency of accidental magic has been reduced drastically in comparison to my childhood, but incidental magic happens. Around me, boys can jump farther, feelings run deeper, and tempers clash and flair with the heat of it all. Fools though they were, they'd be idiots not to notice.

As the only sane one amidst this chaos, it can be quite tiresome.

"You're off your rocker." Moore said to my poetic explanation. Stupidity like his isn't made…it's born.

It calls for a lesson. Maybe a bit of pain would teach him some sense. Something warmed in me, so I stepped forward and pushed him hard. I see him in slow motion as he falls. It's only one quick grab, and I have a flash of metal from his hands. I had his knife.

They gasped.

"Tom…" Knox called in warning.

I studied the knife. Unexpected really. I wouldn't have pegged any of them as violent. I tossed the knife toward the ground, and it opened as it spun. At first the blade just cut through the low grass, but then the earth swallowed it whole.

The silence that answered that was delicious.

"I have more to my inheritance than a _name._ " I told them quietly.

They listened then as I lied with an open and earnest expression. I had them with my small voice and pleading eyes.

Then, when I said, "Those things that happen, it's no one's fault." They might believe me. I doubt it'll stick, but they'll listen. When I have them like this? They must.

"Mrs. Cole has been really good. Been thinking of getting a priest to exorcize evil spirits." I stopped to gauge their reactions.

Knox was looking at Petulance. He seemed stuck between disbelief and hunger. The kind of hunger that makes men drink up stories and spit them out again to anyone who'll listen. Petulance, of course, looked as though he'd drunk something sour. He'd deny everything.

Moore, who had scrambled to his feet as soon as I turned my attention elsewhere, was hanging out toward the back of the group, shifting on his feet in an edgy sort of way.

"A priest." Petulance muttered.

"What do they need a priest for?" Knox demanded.

"The things that happened. Some thought it wasn't natural." I supplied.

He shifted, his big weight a distraction to him, I think. "Like what."

"Like little Owen Cole getting locked in a room of the old wing when no one had the keys." They'd probably heard that story.

There was a muttering at that, and slowly, carefully, the boys drew closer to whoever they favored.  
Moore and Yoder together, Petulance and the one whose name I didn't know, with Knox left as he was. Closest to me.

"That's it?" the quiet one demanded. He had a shrewd expression.

I shrugged lazily. "Some people lost things. I think the Coles are…superstitious people. They believe almost anything."

That got a laugh out of them. But it wasn't the open, friendliness they'd treated me to days before.

Better and better. "Didn't you hear, though?" I asked quietly.

"Hear what." Knox again.

"The Stubbs boy."

Petulance drew a sharp breath. "That was an accident."

"What?" Moore demanded. He apparently had forgotten.

"The Stubbs brat got lost in the countryside a few years back. He was half mad with fright when they found him. Heard he got sent to a family…heard they were part of household enterprise (*4), though." Petulance explained.

I smiled and let them draw their own conclusions. "Whether he meant it or not, it happened." I added.  
"Other kids disappear from time to time. Sometimes just for half an hour. Sometimes for an afternoon. But they never can say where they've been."

I ran the names through my head. Amy Benson and Dennis Bishop were some of the most memorable.

"You ever get lost yourself?" Petulance asked shrewdly.

I gave him a cold look. "Why would I?"

"Ever lost anything?" Moore picked up on the question quick. He just doesn't get it. But he thinks he does.

"No."

"Has anyone died?" the unknown boy asked.

 

"Not to my knowledge." I smiled thinly. "But weak hearts…small hearts, maybe…might not stand up to the place. Some time ago, there was a rabbit whose innards were dropping out of its mouth, hung up high from the rafters. Quite a story, isn't it?"

I started to get bored of scaring them then. A few words passed between us. And soon after, I called out: "I'll be seeing you." I smiled, turned around, and walked away before they replied.

Now I'd best be off for dinner, or the Coles will come up with a reason not to feed me.

o0o0o0o0o

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Footnotes:  
> (*1) Up to the 1940s, school curriculum was not unified in England. According to my (admittedly quick) research, it was the lack of wide-spread literacy that caused a shift in educational practices. Before 1940s, when Tom would have been schooled (probably by the orphanage, and not in town), they were more likely to play games in fields. Games that require equipment (like tennis) would not be offered.  
> (*2) Tom doesn’t learn who his father is until 1944.  
> (*3) The actual title is On heroes, Hero-Worship and the Heroic in History. But I felt that was a bit repetitive. Also, it would be good to note it has critics that Tom conveniently neglects to mention. I source Wikipedia for all this, since I don’t have my old philosophy textbooks…  
> (*4) In this case, family enterprise is referring to a form of child labor in the 30s (which may have continued through WWII). Conditions varied from house to house. 
> 
> tbc…
> 
> A/N: Tom is up to something. Anyone care to guess what it is?


	4. Sweet Vengence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Warnings:** violence, manipulation, and bullying.
> 
> "And somewhere in me, I found a smile, sharp, bitter, but with a chill to it that held me to my purpose." The Prince of Thorns, Chapter 9

**Wednesday, July 30th**

Owen surely is sorry now.

The gang of boys, who formerly ignored him, have started whispering near him. They call him names behind his back, and leer at him with spite in their eyes. But he is too dim to notice, and probably takes their jeering for friendliness.

"Come here, Cole." Knox demanded. "We need an umpire for batting practice. You have a glove, right?"

Owen near wet himself with glee. He thought it was a right treat, didn't he? Playing with the boys.

"Sorry," Petulance managed to keep the sneer from his voice. "We don't have padding. Just catch whatever balls we miss though, and you'll be fine."

Owen smiled. "Sure."

But they missed all the balls. They made a show of looking at their nails, looking the other way, and chatting with their friends as Knox threw balls at amazing speed—maybe the wind gave them a helping hand. Or maybe I did.

By the end, Owen was bruised. Just barely managed to keep from getting a black eye, but when they noticed someone else coming from town, they left abruptly. Made for the Tuck Shop, and left Owen behind, confused and hurting.

I had to smile. Now he's walking past my room with an angry frown, brows furrowed and chin set. I suppose he knows who to thank for this.

Good.

**Thursday, July 31st**

The wind howled. It whipped at my hair and tossed it in my eyes. Pulled the moisture from my lips, and made me wish for a cloak to block the unseasonably chill air.

It doesn't look good. Not for Owen, that is.

I was hidden from sight, thanking whatever deep-rooted intuition it was that brought me here at the right time.

"So, what'd you want to show me?" Owen asked blithely. Excitement, pleasure and nerves licked at his voice. If he could read people at all, he'd be frightened.

That was how it began. When they got to the right spot, they gathered menacingly around the witless Owen.

"We heard stories." Moore said tightly. Suspicion made him talkative, I see. "Unnatural things about your family's…place."

Knox shifted, thoughtful and not quite in one position or another.

"Freaks." Petulance muttered. I had to wonder if he had ever lost to Owen at school. He really was a poor loser.

Owen's face was wiped clean of expression. He'd started eyeing the fields, the tree in which I sat, and everything else. That's about when he took sight of the heavy stake—it was taller than a man, heavy duty wood. Usually used in festivals like Mischief Night, but that holiday has been suspended due to the war…Owen could only guess what use they wanted it for now.

I think he fair froze.

"You shoulda done better." Someone muttered. "Should have drove the evil out—unless you're the one courting it?"

Weird words.

With their simple country ways, they would have resorted to petty violence. The most honest response might have been holding Owen's arms behind his back while Knox and the rest took turns punching lightly. But that's not what they did.

See, there's a shadow in most men's hearts, and the right nudge will bring it out to air.

With me there watching, they tied him to a stake. The stake that was meant for burning on a night that called to mind witch trials that killed so many.

"I…I don't know what you're talking about."

I rocked forward to see him. Pale and nervous he was, twitching like a bird unable to fly.

"You lied." Knox said simply. And the meanness in him was palpable. I suppose he was annoyed because I hadn't stayed to explain. Because he was back in leader mode without a strong lieutenant to feed him plans.

"Wh-what?"

"Think, idiot!" Yoder jeered. "You've been keeping your demons close, haven't you?"

Funny, that. I suppose it just goes to show; even a monkey can get the answer if you show him enough times. Though I hadn't expected them to be so damned literal.

"You told us things happen. Yeah. But didn't think to tell us _why._ " Moore sneered openly then. "What if it gets lose?"

I nearly laughed. But his words were filthy. They talked about me like I was a beast lightly imprisoned. Anger boiled in my blood.

"I didn't have anything to do with that!" Owen cried out, anger replying in kind. He took a step back all the same. "I was never part of it."

"We asked the orphans. They said you were seen with that Tom Riddle often enough. Just this last week you and him went on a walk, yeah?"

We certainly did. Though _actually_ , he followed me. A "walk" that ended with him pushing me off a cliff.

Owen swallowed. "We aren't close."

"He mentioned you." Knox observed coolly. Their words became quiet, but I could hear them mutter. I leaned against the trunk of my tree, waited.

If you were to cut my heart open and peer inside, you'd see anger first. Push that aside, and you find longing. But somewhere deeper than that, you might find fear. Fear of failing. Fear of not knowing. And deeper still?  
Watching Owen be caught and bound, tied to the stake, I felt something resonate in my core. Mortification? Anxiety? No…not—

"No!" Owen screamed, wrenching me out of my thoughts. Guess they punched him after all.

I looked closer, wondering if they'd bring out any more knives. But they were circling round and round like crows, calling out names and occasionally kicking him. They were perfectly violent little brats.

Watching them, I had to think. The way of men is not as subtle as many would have you believe. When the boys shook Owen Cole into a stupor, they thought to teach him a lesson in lying. They would have loved him to say:

_'Oh, you are so powerful to lay me so low!'_

Then Knox or Petulance would gravely reply, _'In the future, you would do well to tell us important developments.'_ They would pause for the delinquent Cole to agree. _'So you will tell us when anything strange happens. And should the villain make a move on the village…!'_

Then the boys would know they'd done right to listen to the feeling in their hearts, to take Owen Cole here and beat him.

But Owen said nothing so good to stoke their egos. He said nothing that could lessen their blows.

"I didn't know!" he shrieked.

"Like hell."

"How could I?" Blood (from a fantastically split lip) dripped down his chin. There was a   
trickling sound. Something _else_ hit the ground with it.

The others had nothing to say to that.

"The orphanage means nothing to you. Why do _you_ care?" he mumbled, exhausted, embarrassed and hurting.

Moore seemed to poke him in the eye, but I think that was meant to be a shove. "You're scum."

"Am not!" Cole lifted his chin. Doesn't know when to quit, does he? "You don't know." It really is stupid to boast like that when you've been tied to a stake and surrounded.  
   
I dropped out of my tree, landing quietly.

"Don't know what?" Knox demanded eagerly.

"That…That _Tom Ri_ —" his teeth started chattering with chill. He might have   
been in shock. He might have felt my displeasure. "He's b-bad."

The wind blew fiercely against their skin, chill and carrying the taste of the sea.

"He's b-b-b-bad!" Petulance mimicked, his voice high in the near dark.

"Evil." Owen muttered.

Knox stepped closer, put his meaty hands on Owen's shoulders and looked him in the eye. "What are you saying."

"He'll…"

"What? We can't _hear_ you." Knox gave Owen another shake.  
   
"—c-curse you!"  
   
And that was my cue. What I would have done for some dramatic lightning. But the wind howled, and I suppose that'd have to do.

"Having a friendly chat, boys?" I called out. The sun set behind me, a darkish color between scarlet and purple. I was silhouetted there, and they couldn't have made out my face well.

Except maybe the smile. I admit. I was giddy, and it showed in my step.

"Wh—" Moore turned white as a ghost. He looked ready to faint.

"Tom." Petulance signed something with the hand that was behind his back, and I had a reckless desire to cut it off.

Blood rushed behind my eyes at the thought of it. "Move." I demanded.  
   
Half the group obliged me, and I stepped closer to Knox.

"You shouldn't be here." Knox said dangerously.

"Nor should you." I smiled at him wider still. "Now move."

He looked at me with disdain mixed with pity. I'd never believed it of him, and nearly   
missed his words. "We need to know." Stubborn.

"Know what?" I laughed derisively. "Know that a pack of devils lives there on the hill?   
Know what things lurk the side-roads late at night?"

The boys exchanged wary glances.

I leaned in on Knox. Bared my teeth with a cruel laugh and sneered. "What do you _need_ to know?" I shoved Knox aside and 'magicked' a knife into view. It was Moore's. (That kind of slight-of-hand can be dead useful…)

"Watch it!" someone yelled.

I looked past them all and went forward. Owen's muddy brown eyes were fearful. His   
face lacked most its usual color, and his gaze was unfocused. Either he was concussed (which I doubted), or he was playing hide-and-seek in his mind, waiting for the worst to be over from behind a mental wall of fog. So his response was slow, mind.

I dropped the pretense of smiling.

"Nnn…nooo…" Owen wailed finally, despair and panic filling him.

I grinned. The knife flashed in the dim light, and they all shrank from me.

The ropes fell. I undid Owen's hands and legs, and pulled him onto me, resting his weight on my shoulder heroically.

The boys suddenly displayed a vast array of quietness. Shifty, scared, angry and   
panicked, each boy edged away from us as quiet as he could manage.

"Demon got your tongue?" I hissed softly.

They didn't stay for brilliant last words. They just turned and ran.

I laughed. Thrilled with my plan's success. I let Owen slump momentarily to the ground. When the mirth stilled and settled into my gut, I looked at him again.

"You're mad." Owen said flatly.

"You're mine." I grinned, showing (maybe) a bit too much teeth.

"What did you…" he self-consciously wiped at a bit of blood and spit. "Why?"

I'm sure my eyes fair glittered. "They don't seem to like you very much, do they?"

Again, he wiped angrily at his cheek. Then he winced. It was already turning colors.   
"And whose fault is that?"

"Shhh, Owen. Quiet, or they'll think you don't like me. And then where will your protection be?"

"I don't need you!" he roared and tried to get to his feet.

I caught his wrist. "They won't come near you again."

Cole's cheeks burned behind his bruises. He was his father in miniature.  
   
I spoke again. "They'll think the devil's got his hooks in you." I pulled him up, shifted his weight on me, and got him steady. All that kicking hadn't helped, and he'd skinned his knees from falling. He'd be too stiff to make the long trek back to without me.

Owen only glared.

"And they'd be right, wouldn't they? I said good-naturedly. "Because a perfect   
_Christian_ wouldn't go pushing anyone off cliffs, now would they?"

That shut him up. We walked in silence.  
   
When we crossed into the premises, Mr. Cole dropped his sack of plant trimmings (or whatever they were) and stormed over. His face was purple with rage.  
   
"What did you do to my son?"

"You might need to teach the village boys a lesson, sir." I replied calmly. Mr. Cole looked the fool, raging at me. "A pack of them ganged up on Owen here."  
   
Owen hid his face, shamed.

"You…you did this." Cole hissed.

I transferred Owen to him. "They beat him up rather…thoroughly. You'll need to do   
something for the swelling. But he can walk, so I don't think it's anything serious."

"Son, what happened?" Cole demanded harshly. He was never gentle, not even with his own flesh and blood. He demanded quick reply or got too angry to properly listen.

No response. I started to withdraw.

"You did this." He repeated.

I turned to look at him, smiling a bright (and yet bitter) smile on my face. "What do you mean, sir? What cause would I have to hurt a _friend?_ " I went inside, ignoring Mr. Cole and his distrust.

It was late when I came back, and it's later still now. Maybe now the summer will begin in honest…Owen will have to help me keep the peace. Who else will speak to him, except the kiddies?

I think I'll remember this day fondly. Not often things go just the way you want. And better yet…

Who could put the blame on me?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Silly Tom. You can't go snubbing people and expect no consequences…
> 
> Thoughts? I'd greatly appreciate any comments. Critique and questions are good too!


	5. Nightmares

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom has a nightmare.

**Saturday, August 2nd**  
Mr. Cole breathes heavily around me. His whole demeanor has gone from the subdued, suspicious caretaker to a pallid, paranoid fool. Except when he sees me. Then his entire face reverts to a ruddy kind of fury. 

I heard him earlier. The whole episode was surreal.

“What are you doing.” Cole demanded of two small girls. I heard him stomp forward. “Don’t you have schoolwork to finish?”

The frail things just trembled. “No, no sir.” One mumbled.

I peered around the banister, certain no one could see me from there. 

“Then get out of my way.” He clenched his teeth.

The girls fled.

So other kids have taken to avoiding him. They see the clenched fists. They know they’ll get told off for a toe out of line. It’s strange…they seem to notice his bad temper as much as I did as a child. At the time, I thought (stupid) brats wouldn’t notice such things. 

Of Owen, I see very little. While his bruises heal, he must be sitting moodily alone. I wish he would come say hello…the thought of it makes me smile. Without him, I can’t move on to the next stage of my plan.  
.  
.  
.  
Damn all liars and thieves. Least when they take what’s _mine._ I caught Edmond Grace with my diary. I’d have half killed him, but Cole saved me the effort. 

I should explain. An organized mind makes no waste of memories. Memories do, after all, make up a man.

It was late at night. Lack of sleep and strange dreams had me up. But more of that later. 

When I got up, it was to find myself walking, bleary-eyed and not myself. I was barefoot. There in the night, at the center of the orphanage’s many old wings, I was quiet as a ghost and just as slow to change my thoughts. So it was that I stumbled on them. Edmond Grace was cowering—or at least trembling. He wasn’t in his bedclothes, no: just the gray uniform all the orphans wear. 

_All the better for not being caught._ He had thought. It surprised me, that. I caught his eye and saw the truth there. 

“What are you doing up so late.” Cole’s voice was a distant rumble. Cold and dangerous. 

My eyes deceived me then, because I saw more than I ought to have from the top of the stairs. I saw Cole’s eyes narrow, saw him edge forward. 

Edmond flinched back. His lighter eyes were shadowed. “Sir, I…” he mumbled. “I was out for some air.”

Most people can’t lie well. Not well enough to fool me, and barely enough to trick anyone else. 

Cole smiled then. It was a nasty thing…like the grimace of a corpse. “And what’s that you’ve got tucked under your clothes?”

Edmond backed up. This was a mistake. He knocked into the rail, and when he lost his balance, Mr. Cole grabbed at him. “Well now.” Cole’s voice was rough. “You’re acting a bit hasty, aren’t you?” He glanced away from Edmond’s middle to his fidgeting hands. “Turn out your pockets.” Cole said.

There was another shuffle and Mr. Cole lunged at Edmond, his face contorted and blood-red. 

Edmond gave a strangled cry. The boy was only a few years younger than me, and to hear him moan, to sob and choke out—

“Stop! You’re hurting me!”

\--made me freeze.

Being a child is no easy thing. Stupid people who win merely by being bigger and stronger than you fill the world. You’re forced to play to rules of ‘older, wiser,’ people. Essentially, being a child amounts to being helpless. I can’t fathom why anyone ever admired the state of being _young._

Cole’s face was red with fury. He was beyond raging, and his hands only slackened from around the other boy’s neck when something thudded to the ground. He was fast, Cole. 

And when he glanced at the book without touching it, a cold, calculating look crept up on his old, dull face.

“What have you found.” His voice was eager. Even now, it fills my ears with his desperation, and such hope and joy in him. I think of that and it sets fire behind my eyes.

“Sir, please!” Edmond begged, fear making his voice quake. “I was only borrowing it, honest. We were only going to—”

“To what.” Cole’s fists came down next to the boy, nearly hitting him. “Are you in league with—”

And he smiled that ghastly smile, a mockery of mirth. A bit of dark curled up around him, and I knew then just how dark a man can be. He stepped forward, muttering. “Yes. I see it now.”

Edmond wailed and ducked. This too, a mistake. Sure, screaming will relieve you momentarily. Mrs. Cole wouldn’t have blood to clean up, wouldn’t let him hammer on the kids ever. _What would the townspeople think?_ But Cole has other ways to get back at you.

_I dreamt. And in that dream, I was small and fragile as any child.  
In the dark, he wheeled a cart. On it, there were sacks of something indistinct. _

_“Take one, Tommy.”_

_And when I took a sack of apples to put through the apple press for harvest-day, it happened. From that apple I saw disease and vermin; it was crawling with worms and pregnant with larva that would erupt into my hands._

_“What?”_

_Then the apple was gone, replaced with something that smelled like rotten meat. Then it was maggots, twisting squirming under a layer of fur that could have been human hair. It was a dream and a yet a memory. After that, after that long day, I felt every hair on me stand on end as the filthy, squirming things writhed. Then, I had to carefully comb my hair. Too certain he’d placed a new kind of death on me_  
in me  
 _that would take root and pull me down, down. Down._

My eyes opened again, but that’s when I saw him. Owen Cole was standing stock-still at the edge of my vision. His pale face was round and smooth, untroubled by Edmond’s plight. His eyes reflected in the lamp like twin ghostly moons. He said nothing.

Mr. Cole advanced. His hands twitched. His teeth glistened, and his smile was stretched again when he took another step.

Closer.

Closer. 

His feet echoed dully on the wooden boards. His was a self-righteous kind of anger. “Hand it over, Eddie. Eddie-boy. Just give it straight to me.” 

Another step.

The darkness loomed.

“No…” Edmond glanced wildly about. “It’s not what you think. He’s not a friend of mine. Really.”

Babbling does no good. More ancient anger has boiled low in Old Cole. A sinister purpose has fastened onto this cruel, small man’s heart. And babbling will do nothing to deter it. 

I blinked. A dream or a memory? I am not sure. And the uncertainty is unsettling. 

_Crunch._

_I remember my horror when two boils appeared on my skin. I knew every twitch was the turn of a maggot. Knew it was locked in my flesh. I knew every itch was a lick at sinew, muscle and blood._

_I clawed it out until I bled, and only magic kept my wrists from bleeding dry. Only my magic let me know I_ wasn’t _dead yet._

The real world interrupted again.

“A boy has to know when he’s done wrong.” Cole said softly. “You know we don’t accept thieves here, Eddie. Not even from Tom.”

I wonder, does loyalty exist in Muggles? Why didn’t Owen _say_ anything? 

Edmond’s tears fell silently. He tried to run. His arm got pulled back most uncomfortably, and Mr. Cole tipped the boy’s chin down. I suppose it was done for a mockery of servility. 

“I’ll be taking that, Eddie-boy. There’s a lad.” 

Owen was annoyed then. He stepped forward. But his old bruises must have taught stronger lessons than anger, and again, he stopped.

Edmond was incensed. He was less the helpless boy and more a…tool. _Mine._ He moved closer, his fingers grabbing. 

Cole tried to open my diary. It would have been horrifying, but before I left school, I put a few enchantments on it. Until I remove those, no hand but mine can open it. 

“It’s useless.” Edmond said. His voice carried clear to me. “It can’t be opened.” He paused. “Not even sure there’s anything in it.”

Cole seethed, and with more force than necessary, shoved the boy out of the way. His head knocked hard against something. Owen took advantage and stepped out of sight.

_There’s a mark on my inner arm where my nails bit into soft flesh. There’s a scar where I remember horror was once imbedded. No one seems to see it but me._

I walked down the stairs calmly. They saw me at once, and my expression promised little. 

Mr. Cole stepped away subtlety. He looked more anxious than usual, but a lifetime of feigned calm was in his favor. “What are you doing out of bed?” And casual as you please, he dropped his hand to his side, thinking to disguise his ‘loot.’ 

I ignored him. “Good evening. Edmond, what _has_ happened to you?” I touched the back of his head, checking for blood. Cole left nothing so telltale, though, and he only looked at me blankly for the trouble.

“Hands off, Tom.” Mr. Cole said stiffly. “Do that again, and the Mrs. might have you called on for…” he smiled faintly, “sodomy.” 

He would just _love_ that. Seeing me punished for a crime more terrible in his mind than any ‘hard lesson’ he ever gave. Never mind he’s caused more than bruises, and may have impaired minds. 

I turned to him then, and my smile was dangerous. “You have something of mine.” I said softly. “Give it _back._ ” 

There’s power behind words like that. He looked at me in my soft bedclothes. He saw the set of my jaw, the line of my tight, unfriendly smile. 

Edmond walked upstairs, heading for the boys’ wing. 

It was as though he broke a spell. Mr. Cole stared at me. Then he gave me my diary without a word.

I took it in hand and turned my back on him. “You can’t hurt just anyone you please, Cole.

“Not without the power to back your claim.” 

Then I left.

I will not sleep tonight. There’s an end in this that I do not want. Someone will pay, or I will never sleep again in this place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...tbc...
> 
> Thoughts?


	6. They all come (falling) down.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom never fancied himself a _nice_ boy.

**Saturday, August 9th**

There are times when I must do unpleasant things to reach my goals. That’s when all you can do is grit your teeth and bear it…. Or smile to yourself and fool any who see you into believing anything you’d like.

Mrs. Cole seemed pleased. She’d graciously nodded. “We’d be happy to have you, Mr. Riddle.” She said in her most formal voice. I nodded seriously in return, and she offered a rare smile. “Oh, Tom!” and odder still, she helped me find the clothes.

Apparently I was of a similar size to her brother….her older brother who’d died in the war. My lips twitched at that, but I listened.

She was happy with that, and so she suspected nothing.

“Don’t be too late now,” she warned. “I know you like your books…you forget your dinner more often than any other boy your age, and what, with food so scarce I don’t know how you’d manage…” but when they left for town, her kind worrying ceased. She forgot about me altogether, and I was left to make my own way, the same as any other orphans who wanted to go.

During the war, towns like this one arranged for dances to be held on occasion. The fear that would crowd the Muggles when alone would be only a trifle amongst their fellows. So girls would wear their dresses—the ones that swished and billowed almost like robes, and the boys would wear whatever they had that was decent.

When I arrived, I took my place amongst the dancers and watched them take their steps. I’d smile when acknowledged, and many a matron would look on me with surprise (how curious…),and a mix of lust and suspicion.

It made my skin crawl.

I let them look on me, and I prowled carefully through the crowd. I stopped when a girl crossed dangerously close.

Batting her lashes girlishly, she simpered, “Good evening.”

I practiced my charmer’s smile, and she obligingly blushed. Stupid creature. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

“You look handsome in those new clothes…” she was rather heavy-handed with her praise, and I nearly scowled instead of raising an eyebrow.

Then I sketched a gentleman’s bow. “You’re too kind.” If she were someone I wanted to impress, I would have added, _my lady,_ but she isn’t, so I dropped the smile and give her my attention.

“Are you visiting for the summer?” she was clearly trying to grope for information, but her words were borne too neatly. Without the complex webs of words veiling intent, the ‘traps’ were all too plainly laid.

It reminded me of school.

_“You know how the moon looks in the morning sky?” I’d told the boys in Slytherin house two years my junior. “That pale blue-white is the same color of a water snake in Asia….Salazar Slytherin came across it in his travels after having left Hogwarts. They called it a ‘great water dragon,’ and legends of it as a guardian of waterways and rivers colored the way they were seen. The people feared it, but held it in awe, too. The witches and wizards who met Slytherin were a strange sort, but this is the tale they told him…”_

The girl’s dress had lighter blue lace for the trim, and she wore a pale stone at her wrist. The bracelet was plain and nothing fancy, but it reminded me of the tale. But this girl was no witch, and she’d never know the significance of the color.

“What do you think of Little Hangleton?” she pressed.

I shrugged. “It certainly has a plethora of beautiful sites.” My gaze wandered from her to the thicket. “I could almost understand the Romanticists and their Sublime nature, with the places here…”

Her face went blank for an instant. “Oh. Do you mean the Church?”

I turned away more fully. “No.” And with that, I left her standing there, awkwardly staring after me as I wove through the crowd.

There was a hint of rain on the air, and a touch of suspense on the wind. I noted with interest that it was only the young or newly enlisted who danced whole-heartedly. The people with experience and knowledge of wartime, though? They were not so keen on dancing. It was fascinating, this intrigue. The way the adults hid their feelings from easily discerned words, only to spill their secrets with a glance, or reveal their affairs with a touch…

How easy they are to read. Playing off them would be a simple thing.

Ah. I inadvertently had wandered closer to my legal guardians. Mrs. Cole, chatting with some women from town to my left…and there was _dear_ Mr. Cole, who had worn his Sunday clothes and pressed his tie. He claimed he was there to ‘keep an eye out’ and ‘watch those kids.’ He’s as suspicious as ever. I imagine he’s ready to see the lot of them off to war and be quit with it.

 _Which of them hurt my boy?_ he wondered, but his beady eyes could not perceive it.

“I think he’s ready to go back.” I spoke quietly to Mrs. Cole, who looked up in surprise when she realized I was there.

She could have replied, _‘Oh, but that’s men for you. They’d rather gripe in silence between cigars than spend a day out!’_

But instead her tired face tightened, and her eyes shifted nervously from me to the others. “What are you on about?”

“Mr. Cole. He doesn’t seem happy to be here.” I clarified with a soft smile, as though we shared a joke. “He’ll have the men riled up in no time, Mrs. Cole.”

She didn’t understand the joke. I suppose she thought me a tediously serious child. “Off with you. We’ve no time for your nonsense.” Then it occurred to me at last—any more words from me would endanger her position among the ladies. She might show me affection in private, but never in public. The Coles were like that.

I looked at her, faintly annoyed, and nodded once. She had inadvertently given me the key to dominating her… what better way to thank her than to throw her fears in her face?

I noted the other women then. They observed me in silence. The woman in dark forest green had a tiny smirk that marked her unkindly, and the other’s wide eyes proclaimed her a fool. She stood there, dressed in a pinkish gray, and she eyed me with something between wonder and apprehension.

“Good evening, then.” I bid them.

Faces turned toward me in the dance—I saw someone who could have been Petulant Paul Wenman’s older brother, and unfriendliness seemed to surround me. The music would change, and he would seek me out. Surely he’d heard a thing or two from his little brother. Things could get out of hand if I wasn’t careful…I don’t know how things would have turned out if the whole of the village actually roused itself against me. Were witch burnings possible in the modern era?

I hoped not, and hurried away.

I saw Mr. Cole soon after. He was there in the shadows, looking like a festive corpse looming too tall. Something had spooked him—his face was gaunt and his eyes were hard. A wave of uncertainty washed over anyone close to him, and the magic in me pulled at his emotions and distorted them.

 _He was afraid,_ I saw, and it gripped his heart. That fear was mine, for a moment. Then ittore at him rather than gnawed, and it burned in his eyes.

My heart quickened to see it, for it was not _me_ hurting. The beginnings of a smile tugged at my lips. To see him so…I knew then who held the power, and it was not Mr. Cole. It never would be again. I turned away, knowing he would follow. He could sense my amusement, and that is what cast fear to anger.

Oh, come and watch. This is how a petty man falls.

I watched him as though in a dream. In the best of dreams, you know what’s coming. I had a feeling this would be one of those.

 _This is a dance,_ Mr. Cole’s mind told him. At the same time, _This is the  
wild,_ my magic urged, _and there are things waiting for you in the shadows._

Mr. Cole looked on at the indifferent world, and he saw a glimpse of madness. There would be no one here in his mind’s eye—the milling Muggles would be unseen. He would hear his feet on dried leaves, and he would sense _me_ in the dark.

He edged closer, all unaware of the ladies he cast aside. They were all aflutter.

I smiled.

He came closer, and the dark opened up to show him a series of long, irregular forms hanging in the copse of young trees. Unhearing, he walked past the band—a paltry pair of country musicians—and he swayed on his feet.

Dark. Dark and shadow carried him closer still. One step after another, dread and anger filling him. (Memories of mine amplified his errant heart, and he hated me. so. much.)

He reached out.

“My son.” He moaned, and it was piteous to hear. His heart jumped, he stumbled, and he put his hand toward the phantom in the copse.

The dancing stopped then, and the music dwindled to a fine line. People turned to watch him, our fierce Mr. Cole, and he stalked and jostled forward toward me. His open mouth trembled.

“You.” He said.

I did not reply.  
   
He found me in the half dark, and he snarled. “What have you done to my son?” he demanded.

I made my eyes wide and tucked my chin in just a bit. I’ve grown since spring, but for  
now I’m sleight enough to look half a child, half adult. I’ll use this body of mine to full advantage while I can. To the crowd, I’ll be a frightened boy. And him?

He would play the monster. He’d be the Thing to rally against, the one that threatened their idyllic village safety.

“What do you mean?” I asked slowly.

In his eyes, a wrong thing stood before him, and something terrible behind. He croaked out, “Murderer.”

I did my best to quaver before him.  
   
Strong arms reached for me. I didn’t have to feign stumbling back. “No, Mr. Cole—I didn’t—”

There was a commotion as others tried to find Mrs. Cole, and in the meanwhile, we  
played cat and mouse. Mr. Cole tried to swipe at me, tried to choke me as he would have were we alone at the orphanage, and he seethed with unspoken anger.

The mocking, accusing refrain tore at his throat. “My son! My son.”

Finally, Mrs. Cole lurched toward us, between us, her thin frame shaking with anger, embarrassment, and (yes), horror. She tensed and winced against his oncoming fist, but the magic released him just enough to recognize her. Not before he clipped her shoulder with a damaging blow, though. If it were me, that would have been my jaw.

She cried out in pain.

Mr. Cole froze, alarmed. “Where is Owen.” He demanded.

“He’s fine.” She got the words out between a gasp. Her whole arm would be afire, I knew.

“Where’s Owen?!” Mr. Cole’s mounting terror was touching, really. How many people would fight so hard (against me, no less?) for their child? But I had little time to marvel.

The same people who had brought Mrs. Cole forward to calm the raging beast had also found Owen Cole. His bruises were much improved after more than a week to heal. He kept those covered, mostly, but a sudden growth spurt left his wrists showing, and where the rope had tied him was a sight to see. “Sir,” Owen called out hesitantly, dejectedly.

He hadn’t wanted to come.

My heart again surged at the thought. He’d caught sight of the pattern. He _knew_ what would happen, and he wanted no part of it. I could hardly keep from grinning, from applauding his uncommon sense. But no. That would reveal too much.

“See here, Cole, Owen’s safe.” One adult soothed.

“Safe and sound.” Another agreed, and he put a hand on Owen’s shoulder. Like the boy was a prize calf. “Have a look, man!”

But Mr. Cole was not reassured. He looked past his son’s face, and he remembered my eyes. My words.

_You can’t hurt just anyone you please, Cole. Not without the power to back your claim._

Such was his arrogance that he would assume it a challenge, not a promise. He would think it perfectly fair to strike out. He hurried toward Owen.

The others stepped back to give him space. They assumed Mr. Cole was acting out of passion, out of a sincere love for his boy, and some were nodding in approval. Some watched with distaste, as such things were not meant for a town dance, but everyone’s eyes were on the Coles.

When Mr. Cole was near enough, he no longer saw anything at all. Only my face, my eyes, my _magic._ So Mr. Cole took his son, the ‘sweet light’ of his life, and he spat in his face.

Mr. Cole punched Owen hard in the gut and pulled his fist upward, knocking into the ribcage. Owen was knocked aside, and he fell—

_—magic is a curious thing._

_It connects me to the world, and like I said? Magic loves me. And I it.—_

—he falls.

(The cliffs are high around the coastal village, and there is a place where none may go safely but me. It is a secret place. It was meant to be mine.)

There’s nothing but the wind in his ears, the chill sea air and a sense of _down._  
.  
.

It is very cold and the ocean threatens to swallow him in a watery embrace...that is, if the rocks don't pierce him first. He hears footsteps behind him. He's felt the hand that would kill him, but it was not nan enemy, no. There’s a soft sigh of breath and sniffle of fear wiped out by terrible words.

  
_“You never deserved to live.”_ Owen said to me.

                                                                                                           (I repeated it back to him.)

He falls, and he remembers. Not an enemy, but his own loving _pa._

.  
.

There’s pain. There’s fear; _of course_ there’s fear. Fear of falling, fear of dying, fear of what lies below.

(There are creatures in the dark. There are monsters who crave children’s blood, and when they cannot have it, they are sullen. When soft flesh comes near, they leap and they fly. They have sharp, sharp teeth.)

He falls, and the moment is an eternity.

He knows he will die. And he knows that he has not yet truly lived.

Owen opens his mouth and screams.

  
.  
.

The silence was thick on the dance floor. Magic released Owen, and he lay there, damp with sweat and scared. Mr. Cole saw what he had done, and his eyes went wide. He started to deny it. And then everything started happening at once.

“What are you doing, man?” someone shouted.

“Putting a hand against your own child!” they began to push Mr. Cole away.

Mrs. Cole was shocked. She had no words. “Please,” she begged. “There’s been a mistake.” Her voice shook, and for a moment, I pitied her.

“I…”Mr. Cole said, abashed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know it was you.” He said to the floor. He took a hesitant look up, and I saw the child he must have once been in the uncertainty, in the pain. “Owen. Please.”

Owen’s eyes were blank. There was blood under his nails, and if anyone were to check, they’d surely see strange marks where he pressed them into his skin, trying to find purchase on a cliff wall that wasn’t there.

Mr. Cole couldn’t wait long. He said to the rest of them, “I only meant to touch him. T-to…I don’t know what happened.”

But I do. Mr. Cole’s feelings were real, but he was fooled into seeing me where he ought to have seen Owen. The rest, I’m afraid, was all him.

“Owen?” he asked again, his voice plaintive.

 

And then he left, shamed. I watched him go.

Owen would not respond for several minutes, and when he did, he was disoriented. He didn’t seem to know the place at all, and his teeth chattered in fear. He would never like heights after that. I was sure of it. He couldn’t follow me again if he wanted to.

“D-dad?” he called out quietly. He avoided looking for me in the crowd at all.

“Your father’s gone home, dear…” Mrs. Cole murmured, heaving him to his feet and having him lean onto her. “We’d best be going.” She did not speak around to her townsmen, who looked on with indifference at best.

“Good riddance.” Someone muttered.

Mrs. Cole stiffened. And when she and her son walked away, she spared not a glance for anyone or anything else.

My heart finally began to slow, and the excitement left me. After that, I started to feel tired, started to wish away the people who no longer stared at _me,_ but what I’d done.

People are too much for me sometimes. I wish they’d all go away.

Thinking back through this night’s events, this past week in my head, I think this plan well carried out.

  
.  
.

The magic came easily to me, to be true, but even so. It’s not easy to make a split second feel thirty times, no, a hundred times its length. It’s not easy to make another man remember what you do. But I will be a master Legilimens, so that much was possible, even today. Even now.

Mr. Cole has not returned yet. I wonder, what holds him up on this night road? Could it be the monsters under the hill? Or is it a more common thing?

Guilt, they say, could eat a man alive.

I wish him the best of it.


	7. Summer winds down. (epilogue)

**Friday, August 15th**

Mr. Cole left for the war. 

The family is in disgrace. 

**Sunday, August 17th**

I am left to pursue my textbooks in silence…and peace.

As it is, another summer begins to wind itself to a close. And soon, I can resume my magical studies in more conventional ways. Away from the Muggle countryside and beside my magical peers.

If I can do this much with intent and wild, incidental magic….well. My mouth waters with what I could accomplish if I could more study and test myself in a magical environment.

 

Maybe next year I will not have to come back here. There is a war, after all.

This year’s books are tucked away out of prying eyes, and no one comes to bother me while I read. It is an ideal end. I was almost tempted to use my wand, but they say the trace is stronger on wanded magics…soon, they say, in a few years time? The trace will be bound to an area, and not so much the wand. I wonder then what would become of ‘accidents’ like mine then.

But that will come to pass on its own. In the meanwhile...? 

 

I will pave the wizarding world with great achievements, in the years to come. And it will start…with the next one.


End file.
